


neither of us will be missed

by aphwhales



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, the relationship is vague oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 12:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphwhales/pseuds/aphwhales
Summary: “You know, you still haven’t told me what happened at my trial.”“Not much to tell, honestly,” Crowley replies dryly. “Just hellfire.”(based onthis post)





	neither of us will be missed

**Author's Note:**

> title from saint bernard by lincoln  
not my best work but ive been meaning to 1. write something about this and 2. get back into writing more

“You know,” Aziraphale begins, when the champagne has been long finished and only his dessert remains on their table, “you still haven’t told me what happened at my trial.” 

Crowley looks away. The pianist is picking up her sheet music and placing it into a folder, and the sky is darkening outside. “Not much to tell, honestly,” he replies dryly. “Just hellfire.” 

“Yes, but what did they say, what did you say?” Aziraphale presses. “I should probably know for when they come for us again, my dear.” 

The fact that the demons had given him a trial - even a mock one - surprised Crowley. But nothing had shocked him more than the fact that Aziraphale’s trial wasn’t even a mock trial. It was only an execution, and Gabriel had no qualms about killing him. 

That, in Crowley’s opinion, had been the worst part. How could anyone hate Aziraphale so much? 

“Angel,” Crowley finally sighs. “Just - just drop it, okay?” 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press, only lifts another forkful of his pie to his mouth. 

~

Crowley spends the next day fidgeting on the sofa in the rear of the bookshop as Aziraphale does inventory - real inventory, for once, as he wants to figure out what books Adam had added to his collection. 

The angel hums contentedly as he organizes the books into towering, unsteady stacks. Crowley can’t stop thinking of how the entire shop was on fire. 

He had thought it hellfire, until Aziraphale had told him the whole story that night. And now he has seen hellfire, and walked Aziraphale’s body into it. 

“Crowley?” 

The demon hadn’t even noticed that he was crying until Aziraphale broke him out of his reverie. His glasses are on the coffee table - he rarely leaves them on around Aziraphale, anymore - so he merely blinks a few times and drags his sleeve over his face. “Sorry. Thinking.” 

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale moves to sit on the couch, prim and proper next to Crowley’s sprawled form. “You’ve been acting strange since I brought up my trial yesterday, dear boy.” 

“Ssstop sssaying that,” Crowley puts his face into his hands, muffling his hissed words.

“Saying what?” 

“‘Trial’. You - you didn’t _have_ a trial, Azsssiraphale.” Crowley croaks. 

The angel is silent for a few moments, but Crowley stares resolutely into the darkness of his palms. Anxiety radiates off Aziraphale, and finally he asks, “Then… what happened?” 

“An execution.” Crowley sniffs, wiping his face with his sleeve again. He stares Aziraphale in the eyes now, greenish-blue meeting yellow. “It was only ever an execution, angel.” 

Aziraphale blinks once. Twice. Nods ever so slowly. “Ah.” 

“Gabriel told me - you - I don’t know anymore,” Crowley huffs, “He told you to shut up and walk into the flamesss.” 

Aziraphale nods again. “Yes, I. I did get the impression that Gabriel was not fond of me,” he says awkwardly. 

“Not fond - he told you to die!” Crowley is incredulous, nearly sobbing, and his voice cracks as he continues. “They didn’t even have a fake trial like my lot did! You had _no chance_, Azssiraphale!” 

“Crowley. My dear, please calm down.” Aziraphale is calm, _too fucking calm_. He barely seems surprised, and he only places a steady hand on the small of Crowley’s back. “You need to breathe.” 

Crowley does, shallowly but slowly. Technically, he doesn’t need to breathe, but somehow he’d started when he got worked up. It takes him a few minutes to calm down. Finally, he casts a sly glance at Aziraphale. The angel seems hardly bothered. 

“I thought you’d be more. Upssset?” Crowley mumbles uncertainly, leaning into Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Er,” The angel looks vaguely uncomfortable. “To be quite honest with you, I really am not surprised. They never liked me, up there. Just the other day, before everything, Sandalphon punched me in the stomach.” 

“He did? I’ll kill the bastard,” Crowley responds with a weaker growl than he’d like. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale continues as though he hadn’t heard Crowley’s threat, “I was rather surprised you got even a mock trial, considering. But, ah, they were doing it for, um, real reasons. Killing a coworker, I suppose, actually would warrant a death sentence.” Crowley waits for more, but Aziraphale seems to be done talking. He rubs idle circles on Crowley’s back, unconsciously trying to comfort him. 

“Are you okay?” Crowley asks finally, after several seconds of silence. He feels silly, being more upset than Aziraphale over the angel’s attempted execution. 

The angel stares towards nothing, and doesn’t respond for a few moments. Then, he takes a shaky breath, and tells Crowley, “I will be. It just takes a bit out of you, to know that your boss really hates you as much as you think.” He chuckles in a strange tone. “I’ll be fine, Crowley.” 

Crowley only turns and presses his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and loosely, almost lazily, throws an arm around him.


End file.
